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The Sapphire Brooch
The Celtic Brooch Series, Book 3
Katherine Lowry Logan
Copyright © 2014 by Katherine Lowry Logan
Kindle Edition
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and names are entirely the product of the author’s imagination and there are no references to real people. Actual establishments, locations, public and business organizations are used solely for the intention of providing an authentic setting, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Edited by Faith Freewoman
Cover Art by Damonza
Interior Design by BBeBooks
Website: www.katherinellogan.com
Dedicated To
~
Charlotte and Lincoln
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part Two
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Three
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Part Four
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Author’s Notes
Bibliography
About the Author
The Celtic Brooch Series
Part One
“History, despite its wrenching pain cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”
—Maya Angelou
1
Chimborazo Hospital, Richmond, Virginia, October 1864
Death waited on the other side of the partially shuttered window, pointing its long, bony finger at Michael Abraham McCabe. He didn’t fear death, never had. Dying slow from a gut shot was preferable to dying at the end of a rope. Either way, the shutters would open fully and Death would sling Braham’s body over its shoulder and haul him the short distance to Hell.
Braham crawled his hand along the curve of his swollen belly. The bullet had branded him with a sizzling, red-hot poker, burning flesh and sinew down to the bone, and his body contorted in brutal agony.
Through dry, cracked lips he exhaled one word, “Water.” He didn’t need much. Only a sip to quench his thirst would do. He tried licking his lips but his thick tongue wouldn’t slide across the chapped skin.
Behind his half-opened eyelids, wavy figures shambled around him. He blinked and tried to focus on the rows of beds filled with moaning men, wounded Confederate soldiers, not Yankee spies like him.
Johnny Rebs had tossed him onto a bed. “Don’t let the bastard die,” they had told the surgeon. “We intend to hang him.”
The nurses called him a dead man walking toward the gallows.
That’s what he was, but would Death take him by the hand before the hangman could put a noose around his neck? The soldiers had tried to beat the names of Richmond’s underground network out of him. They couldn’t. So, they intended to strip him of what he cherished most—his honor. He would die the dishonorable death of a spy. And who would care? He was alone. Not only on this ward but also in life. He had no family. No son to carry on his name. All a man had at the end of the day was his honor, and the Rebs intended to dump his into an unmarked grave.
The door at the end of the building opened and rattled shut. “Where’s the prisoner?” the man asked in a distinctive Virginia drawl.
Feet shuffled. A chair scraped across the floor. “Down there. Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon,” a young lad said.
“Are you the night nurse?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bootheels thudding purposefully against the floorboards grew louder, sharper. Brisk movements churned up the air throughout the ward. Men turned in their beds to see the newcomer. Braham turned, too, and rerouted his attention from the sharp stabs of pain in his belly to the man striding toward him wearing a gray officer’s tunic. He hadn’t seen this surgeon before. Would he do anything different from what the others had done? Five or six surgeons had already examined him. Afterward, they had walked away shaking their heads, saying, “There’s nothing we can do for that one.”
“Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?” the lad asked.
“What? Oh…well, he was caught down by the railroad tracks. Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?”
“I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.”
The surgeon reached Braham’s metal-framed bed and read the paper ticket hanging on the end of the frame. He had wondered what was written on the paper other than his name, date of admission, and injury. Instead of entering information about his regiment, had they written Yankee spy. Would they tie the paper to his toe when they buried him?
The surgeon tugged on his hickory-colored beard and furrowed his brow. “Is there an exit wound?”
“Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the hangman will.”
The surgeon pressed his fingers against the inside of Braham’s wrist and held them there. His touch was gentle, with an almost silky feel to his skin, and there were no slight pricks from sharp or ragged nails. Hands told a lot about a person, especially when they fanned a deck of cards or tended a wound or touched him in tender places.
Braham clenched his teeth against the chill brought on by another bout of rigors. “Water.”
The surgeon’s forehead creased as he lifted the dressing, pulling scab and crusted dirt from Braham’s wound. When he pressed his fingers into Braham’s belly, pain lanced through him, and he cried out, “Ahhhh.”
“Sorry.” The surgeon withdrew his fingers and straightened, mumbling under his breath. Then he looked at the wound again. “How long has he been shaking
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